This is NOT Dean's Diary
by TresMaxwell
Summary: A quick one-shot in Dean's perspective about how screwed up his life really is. Mentionings of Wincest, Dean/Sam


Genre: Supernatural

Warning: Slash, Wincest

Pairing: Dean/Sam

Rating: M- For semi-explicit mentioning of incestuous sex.

Feedback: Yes please! The more feedback I get, the faster I usually work because I get inspired.

I want to get something straight right off the fuckin' bat: This is NOT a diary, or a memoir, or anything else girly. This is just a way for me to get things organized in my head. I'm going to burn the damn thing when I'm done so if your readin' this Sammy, be aware that I'm about to kick your ass.

So there it is, not a diary. Period. Because I'm not into shit like that. It's just that a girl at a bar said it might help me to write it all down and look at it … I think she was a shrink in training or something. Don't ask me why I'm taking her advice, but I guess it seems better than drinking beer until I'm stupid like I usually do when this shit is bothering me.

I've got a fucked up life. I know that. It's been fucked up since the first damn day that demon took Mom and it'll never go back to normal. I'm aware of that, I am. Even if it is something I long for every once in awhile, I'm not going to have a house in the 'burbs with a wife, 2.5 kids and a Labrador. That life is so far out of my reach that it's almost imaginary, like something you only see on TV.

Somebody, fuck if I remember who, told me once that people thrive on consistency. I think I told that person that consistency is fuckin' boring and I'm going to stand by that, but I could see where it would be nice sometimes. If you know exactly where you'll be sleeping at night, what kind of day your job is going to throw at you, when dinner is going to be, I guess there's a lot less to worry about. You can just kinda coast through things instead of having to be on guard all the time.

I don't have any of that. What I have is Sam.

Family is my consistency. Not Dad, Dad wasn't there for ninety percent of our childhood. Countin' on him to be there for a birthday or Christmas or anything was like expecting an old M16 to fire without jamming. My Dad was a great man, but I guess his job meant more than… no way am I fuckin' writing that. My Dad laid down his life for me and I know he'd do it again if he got the chance. He expected us to be self-sufficient and that was that. The only time it pissed me off that Dad didn't come back was when I had to tell Sammy he wasn't coming and watch that kid's face fall.

Jesus, I'm going to grow a uterus before I finish this damn thing.

What I guess I'm trying to get at is that our lives are what drove us to… well… fuck. Sammy can't do the one-night-stand thing. He always wants to give the girl his phone number and keep up with her or visit when he's in town (which won't happen) so it eats him up to just use a girl and leave. I swear he's part chick and not just because we screw.

Banging your little brother is probably the most fucked up thing someone can do. Don't think I don't realize that. When he and I are rolling around in some cheap motel bed with his big ass hands crawling across my back and me bitin' on every piece of skin I can get, it crosses my mind that I'm going to hell… again… but he needs it. Unlike me, Sammy needs to have something constant and… Christ, my ovaries are starting to form… he needs someone loving.

I know I really, really suck at the whole loving part. It's taken me awhile, but I'm starting to get what he wants me to do and say. Really, he wants me to be honest with him about the whole thing and you have NO idea how hard that actually is. It just so fuckin' awkward to talk about. Every hunter we know would cut us down on principle if they realized what we did when that motel door closes each night. It's wrong… fucked up… but I can't stop.

God forbid Bobby ever finds out.

We're usually really damn careful, but it's like people can still tell. I don't have enough fingers and toes to count how many times people have thought we're a couple, even though we don't do anything in public. Every once in awhile, we break and do something really stupid. We fucked on the side of the freeway once because the argument we were having turned into shouting which turned into a fistfight on the side of the road which turned into Sammy spread out on the hood of the Impala with his legs wrapped around my hips. With us, there's this thin line between fighting and fucking and I'm not always sure which side we're standing on.

Damn it, I'm getting a little horny thinking about that… when the hell is he coming back with dinner?

Anyway, back to it. I don't know what I'm trying to do here… maybe make this alright even though it'll never be alright. I guess I wish I could curl up with him when he's hurtin', or kiss him, or tell him that I love him without feeling guilty… guilty because all of this bullshit is pulling him down into hell with me. Sammy deserves a chance for something better… especially something better than me.

It started because he needed me, but he's got to move past that eventually. Fuck… I don't think this is helping. It's makin' me feel worse. I hear Sammy's key in the lock anyway, so I guess we're done here.


End file.
